Breezy
by Mimssio
Summary: A Fisher fic. Featuring an OC of my own creation. Probably not extraordinary. Please give it a chance anyway. Don't forget to tell me what you think!


Breezy

By Miriam Garber

A Fisher fic. Featuring an OC of my own creation. Probably not extraordinary. Please give it a chance anyway. Don't forget to tell me what you think!

I came to terms with my diagnosis a long time ago. Though I still hate the phrase. "Coming to terms" is so stupid. It's saying that you and the thing, the opponent, the enemy, sat down at a table and negotiated the terms of your relationship. It acts like the two of you agree on something. My diagnosis and I will never agree on anything, at least not willingly. We fight over everything. But when I'm not pulling a rope-a-dope on my Chagas disease, I'm fine.

So when I met up with Fisher, I didn't have the best initial reaction to his change in attire. And attitude.

"What the hell, Colin? What's with all the black? Are you… wearing eyeliner? Oh my god. What did they do to you?"

Fisher had recently started working as an intern in the Jeffersonian Institute. When he left Brookings, South Dakota, to move first to Sioux Falls and then to Pierre, I thought we would simply stop being friends. We were in fourth grade when he moved away. Fourth graders are not known for their dedication to correspondence. But he had written, called, and e-mailed regularly. We actually kept in touch. Which, to my mind, cemented his reputation as a thoughtful, kind, and upbeat guy. Obviously, things had changed.

"Gee, it's nice to see you, too, Sarah. Thank you for supporting my decision to dress in mourning colors to commemorate my realization that all life is futile. And no, I'm not wearing eyeliner," Fisher replied.

"So you claim," I stated, unconvinced.

"Well, not much," Fisher amended.

"Moving on, what's this about you thinking life is futile? Like you're one to talk."

"Like you're one to refute it. Sarah, you're dying," Fisher shot back.

I protested, "No, I'm no-!"

"It's okay. I'm dying too. Just, slightly more slowly," Fisher added. He was being really morbid about all this.

"Man, why are you doing this?" I questioned. "Is it just your mission to bring me down today? You know my philosophy. You know how I feel about this crap. And I'm sure you know the news I just got about my Chagas."

Fisher interrupted, "No, that I don't." His face looked so concerned. "What's wrong? What news?"

"My prognosis. That pacemaker I got last year, it's.. not working as well as they had hoped."

"How long have you got?" he asked, morose.

"I've got time. Years, even. Just… not as many of them as you.

"On another note," I continued, "you have to show me the sights! Today, we are tourists. I don't care if you went to see all the monuments the first day, I want to see how they stand up to Rushmore and the Black Hills."

Fisher was not so easily dissuaded from our original topic. "How can you be so nonchalant about this?" he questioned.

"Dude, you know me. That's just how I roll. I mean, what's my other option?"

I don't think life is futile, like Fisher does now. I mean, I may never have kids, but so what? I once heard someone say, "You shouldn't take life too seriously. You'll never get out alive." That is just so true. Yes, everyone dies. Yes, I will die sooner than most in this country, in this day and age. No, that doesn't mean I have to be depressed about it. We just float through life on the breeze. Some people get all worked up about it and try to make sails and rudders to direct their motion. But I've been an adventurer since I was little. I'd rather fly where the wind takes me, and pretend it's fate rather than some butterfly on the other side of the world flapping its wings.

Sometimes, shit gets heavy. That's just how it is. It doesn't mean we have to let it weigh us down. I tell Fisher this. He remains unsatisfied.

"For God's sake, Sarah, you need to face your own mortality! That is, as you put it, some very heavy shit! You can't be obsessed with keeping everything light all the time, or you'll never really appreciate the life you have. You'll just be distracting yourself from the truth, looming overhead."

Obviously, he failed to understand my method. And the fact that my method worked fine for me.

"You have no idea what I'm going through, Colin. And you have no right to tell me how to live my life, how to smell my roses, how to face my death. Those things are mine, and mine alone. Have you considered that maybe my 'impending doom' helps me avoid this kind of shit? Most people have to shove their mortality out of their minds for decades. I only have to keep away from the subject for five more years, tops. Then I'm home free! If you believe in that kind of thing, that is.

"My question is," I continued, pausing for breath after my rant, "why do you have this huge fucking problem with how I live my life? Like you have a say in it."

Fisher was silent for a while. These things don't always have an answer.

"Can't I just not want you to die? Not want you to be so.. okay with dying? Can you just give me this one?"

He had a point. So I hugged him.

"All right, but you've got to promise me to stop wearing so much black. There's no excuse for wearing black in a world with so much color."

You know, that last line was pretty good. I hope he remembers it at my funeral. In the meantime, I've got a national monument to visit, and a best friend to catch up with. Until my time comes, I'll just keep life breezy.


End file.
